


Your Power

by fawntaire



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, M/M, Misfits AU, Multi, Swearing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-08
Updated: 2016-05-08
Packaged: 2018-06-07 06:19:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6789817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fawntaire/pseuds/fawntaire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire can't help but feel bonded to his new community service group.</p><p>Especially after a storm tears through their city and leaves them with unusual abilities.</p><p>Most of them, anyways.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Your Power

**Author's Note:**

> DISCLAIMER: I do not claim ownership to Misfits, or any dialogue taken from the show. Title is working.

“This is it,” Tholomyès says, “This is your chance to do something positive. Give something back. You can help people, really make a difference to people’s lives. That’s what community service is all about. There are people who think you’re scum. You have an opportunity to show them they’re wrong.”

Grantaire rolls his eyes and raises his hand, “Yeah, but what if they’re right? No offense—“

He looks sideways at the tattooed boy with the undercut who snarls and raises up a middle finger.

“—but I’m thinking some people are just born criminals.”

“Grantaire, as much as I appreciate your presence every time I get another batch,” Tholomyès sighs at the boy, leaning casually against the railing, “I would rather you shut the fuck up.”

The girl with the black scarf tied tight around her waist lets out a barking laugh. It’s harsh and humorless and Grantaire likes the sound of it immediately. 

It’s only Grantaire’s second time in community service. Okay, third. Fine, fourth, but who’s really fucking counting anyways? 

He’s not the only veteran in the group. Claquesous has been around once in Grantaire’s group before, for stealing a car and getting caught smoking on the hood of it beneath the bridge. 

But everyone else, they’re new. He knows that the tattooed boy and the curly-haired girl have run with Claquesous before, he mentioned something about that earlier that morning. They, at least, look like the regular crowd. The nervous looking bald-headed boy in the corner is most definitely a first timer. 

The sixth of them though, the snooty looking one with his jumpsuit buttoned all the way up, looks both like he’s in the right place and the wrong place. He’s got this disaffected scowl about his face. But beneath the scowl, his face itself. Now that, Grantaire thinks, is a clear sign that he doesn’t belong here.

Angels aren’t punished like mortals. 

He shoves the thought away. Because all things considered, being the hottest guy Grantaire’s laid eyes upon in a while, doesn’t take away from the fact that he’s here in community service, looking like he’s too good for it. 

Which means he right fucking deserves to be here. And knocked down a few pegs.

“You’re all here for a reason,” Tholomyès’ voice snaps him back to attention, “To—“

“To waste our fucking time?” says Claquesous.

Undercut lets out a laugh at this. Black Belt just scowls some more.

“It could be worse,” says the golden-haired one, “At least they’ve got us doing something that could benefit the community instead of sitting in a cell counting down the days.”

The groans and scoffs from everyone in the group, except the bald-headed boy in the corner, rise up around him. Grantaire rolls his eyes so hard he feels like a cartoon character; the boy’s voice is as posh as his face.

“Well said,” Tholomyès sneers, in a way that is so sarcastic that Grantaire has to laugh again. He really can’t help it. There’s just something about the way that Tholomyès pretends to be on their side and knocks them down every chance he gets that just tickles Grantaire. 

It’s just so fucking messed up. 

“Right, first order of business,” Tholomyès tosses a box of bin bags at Grantaire and he swipes it out of the air, “Cleaning up the garbage around the embankment. Grantaire, show everyone where the litter sticks are.”

“Right-o, Felix,” he whistles, tossing the box in the air. 

Once he’s in proximity of the man, he’s gifted with a hand smacked against the back of his head. Grantaire yelps over the laughter of Claquesous and rubs at his head with an open palm. 

“Don’t,” Tholomyès snarls, “call me that.”

 

They wander along the embankment as casual as can be. Golden Boy seems to have found like kin in the Bald One, even if they aren’t actually speaking. They stay in close proximity anyways and the Bald One offers such genuine smiles that Grantaire is sure Golden Boy can’t be so stuck up for long. 

He feels a little pang of _something_ when Golden Boy finally speaks to the Bald One, his voice low and yet still as clear and melodic as the first time he spoke. 

Grantaire’s natural reaction to this something involves a heavy suppression and, if the demons in his stomach feel so inclined, an obnoxious cry for attention. He turns his ear to listen to the two behind him and Claquesous.

“Éponine,” he’s pleading.

“Shove off, Parnasse,” is her gruff reply. But Grantaire hears some more shuffling and he tugs her back.

“We’re sorry, eh?” Montparnasse says, beneath his breath. “PM wasn’t looking to get you in trouble or anything.”

“No,” Éponine says, “Just my parents.”

“Nobody was supposed to get in trouble,” the boy claims and Éponine scoffs. 

Her steps speed up and she’s shoving past Grantaire, past the Bald One and the Golden Boy before Montparnasse can grab her again. 

They stop walking before the pillars of the bridge, closer to the end of the community centre. The stream tends to shallow and thin out here and the garbage collects against the cement with the currents of the wind and the water. 

“Jackpot!” Grantaire hops down the steps and into the shallowest part of the water, where it barely slips past his soles. 

He clamps the stick over ripped newspapers and water-logged receipts and shoves them into the bin bag. The girl steps to the edge of the cement and reaches down to gather some of her own, her movements jarred and angry.

Grantaire has never been one to mind his own business.

“So what was it you did?” Grantaire pokes the rolled hem of Éponine’s jumpsuit with his litter stick. She jumps back, holding her own stick out defensively. 

“Touch me with that again,” she hisses, “and I’ll shove it up your arse.”

Somewhere past the benches, Golden Boy snorts. 

“Sheesh,” he pivots on the heels of his run-down Converse, “Just tryin’ to make conversation. No need to get snippy.”

Tholomyès emerges from the centre to idle by the benches, a cell phone pressed against his ear. Grantaire reaches his litter stick up in the air, waving at the man with it. Tholomyès rolls his eyes and turns away.

“You then?” Grantaire turns back to the Bald One, leaving the end of his sentence open.

“Bossuet,” the boy stutters.

“Alright, Boss,” Grantaire crosses his arms, “What sort of fucked up shit you into?”

“Nothing,” he says, “Nothing, I—just—wrong place, wrong time.”

“Ah,” Grantaire chuckles, “A regular bad luck Bob.” He leans slightly towards the boy and offers a cheeky wink. “Me too.”

Bossuet ends up somewhere between a smile and some sort of nonverbal protestations but Grantaire’s attentions are swayed to his left.

“What about you, pretty boy?” Grantaire calls to the blonde mass of curly hair that has come to linger beside Éponine. Montparnasse looks up, too, and seems mildly offended when he realizes Grantaire wasn’t calling him. “What did you do?”

The boy narrows his eyes and says, “My name is Enjolras. And I didn’t do anything.”

“Mm,” Grantaire puffs his bottom lip out, as if considering the answer. “Nope,” he shakes his head, “Nope, last I checked police don’t arrest rich kids for nothing.”

Enjolras scowls and turns to shove another crumpled crisp packet into his bin bag. Grantaire jumps up from the water and over the cracked cement.

“Come on, don’t be like that,” Grantaire squishes his wet soles against the pavement, shaping an impressively round circle on the broken ground. “You get caught drink driving? You smash up some retail shop?”

“No,” he grunts.

Grantaire grins at the boy’s inability to ignore him.

“What then? Good old change room wank?” he skips a little, stomping another circle beside the other.

“Ugh,” Éponine wrinkles her nose in disgust behind them and Grantaire chuckles.

“No,” Enjolras protests then, his eyes wide and blue and completely focused in on Grantaire in this infuriated way.

Blame the asshole in him. He can’t seem to ever shut up.

“You take after old Peeping Tom?” he jokes, and because he’s leading, and Enjolras is right on the edge of imploding, “Or maybe you peep at some Toms?”

He definitely hits a nerve at that.

“I punched a police officer, alright?” Enjolras finally snaps, his litter stick flying wildly up.

Grantaire’s laugh only half escapes him. The man is seething and furious and Grantaire is finding it incredibly difficult not to stare at his heaving chest.

“He was in his civvies and he grabbed my friend and she didn’t like it and I didn’t know he was a police officer,” Enjolras hisses, “Can you just leave it?”

Grantaire stares at him, dumbfounded. A noble explanation and something he himself certainly could have been credited with. He wishes he was bored with that explanation. He wishes it had been something he could have deemed unforgiveable, and ruined whatever fantasy Grantaire’s mind seems to be building in real time.

He bites away the ‘o’ his lips have clearly formed themselves into and struggles for another shit-eating grin instead.

“Consider it left,” he sings, throwing a scoff in for good measure. He raises his hands and turns, just a little too fast.

His wet, dirty litter stick slaps right against Claquesous’ exposed shirt. The boy curls his lip back in disgust and rage and shoves at Grantaire’s shoulders with two hands.

“Sorry,” Grantaire attempts an apology between laughs, but watching Claquesous slap at his chest is too much for the day. “Didn’t mean to.”

“Fuck’s sake, R!” he yells. He throws the bag and the stick on the ground, swiveling hard on his heels, cursing and cursing as he marches away.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Tholomyès snaps at Claquesous as he shoves past.

“To the fucking loo!” Claquesous yells back, crashing into the community centre with a shove of his hands.

Grantaire squints as the door shuts behind him, his hands planted on his hips. He hears the glimmer of the word ‘asshole’ from somewhere behind him, though he can’t decide the origin when he turns around and surveys the four of them left.

“Maybe he shouldn’t wear designer shirts to community service,” Grantaire smirks, “is all I’m saying.”

On the other side of Bossuet, Montparnasse shoves his arms into his jumpsuit and zips it up to the neck, scowling cautiously at him.

Above them, the sun disappears. It relieves them all, not to be standing in the heat anymore, and Grantaire wipes his brow and looks up for the rain.

“That’s beautiful looking,” Grantaire grins up at the sky, opening his arms up at the rolling grey clouds, “I almost want to paint it.”

He waits in the humid air, feeling so at peace in a situation where it clearly shouldn’t be offered. 

Then, a piece of hail the size of a soccer ball smacks into the lake beside him, splashing his legs with water. He yelps in surprise and Montparnasse bursts out a laugh. He’s gearing up for another laugh, when another piece slams into a shiny car behind them, setting off the alarm.

“What the fuck?” he screams, looking up with fire in his eyes, like he’s going to fight the sky. “That’s my fucking car!”

The sky screams back, thunder clapping at impossible decibels.

The pieces get bigger. Pavement cracks under the force of the hail and their amusement is quickly exchanged for fear. They reach up instinctively, hoping their shaking hands will protect their skulls.

Grantaire has a terrible, terrible feeling in his gut.

“Holy shit,” Montparnasse exclaims as another boulder smacks into the river behind him, splashing water against his back.

One falls so hard against Bossuet’s ankle they hear a sickening crack. He falls to the ground with a scream, his knee curling into his chest. Enjolras and Éponine immediately launch forward, lacing their arms beneath his shoulders and heaving him back to his feet.

“Everybody inside!” Tholomyès screams over the thunder as the hail cracks patterns into the pavement around them, “Everybody inside now!”

Montparnasse is the first one to take off running towards the community centre. The four of them follow, Bossuet doing his best to hop in time with his two companions. Ever the runner—Grantaire has done a lot of things for which he was not caught, for that reason—he takes the lead past Montparnasse and finds himself on Tholomyès’ heels. The man struggles with his keys, scrambles to fit the right one into the lock as boulders hurl about them.

“Open the fucking door!” Grantaire screeches and a chorus of voices behind him yell similar curse-laden encouragements.  
Tholomyès turns around to scream back at them.

“Don’t yell at me!” he bellows.

Grantaire can just barely see the lightning hit the ground before he’s in the air. Time seems to slow as he feels an energy surge through him, tiny electric shocks between every little thing he’s made of and every little thing he will be. He’s flipped back, and he catches the smallest glimpse of golden hair.

And then, just like that, he’s flat out on the pavement, his muscles tensed and his limbs growing sore with the impact.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Let me know if you find any mistakes :)


End file.
